


While You Were Sleeping

by round_robin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 4 + 1 fic, Doctor!John, Established Relationship, Frottage, Hospitals, M/M, PTSD, not series two compatible, parasomnia - Freeform, suprasomnia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-08
Updated: 2012-04-08
Packaged: 2017-11-03 06:13:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/378204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/round_robin/pseuds/round_robin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Four times Sherlock watched John sleep, and the one time John watched Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	While You Were Sleeping

**Author's Note:**

> Surprisingly enough, Suprasomnia yields zero correct Google results, so all my information comes from my roommate who has a BS in Psych, and her knowledge on the subject of sleep disturbances and parasomnia in general. She's actually the person who made me think about this in the first place: Sherlock never sleeps, and everyone always puts that up to him denying his body's needs. Now, don't get me wrong, I love the fics where he just crashes, but given his personality and everything, there is a good chance he could be a Suprasomniac, or a super sleeper, and actually only needs an hour or so a night. It was an interesting idea that I wanted to try.
> 
> Still, if anyone knows any more about Suprasomnia (or parasomnia in general) and notices that I got something wrong, please, please correct me.
> 
> Not betaed or Brit-picked, so all mistakes are mine. Finding typos is a welcome thing. :)

**1.**

**  
**

In hindsight, Sherlock probably shouldn’t have been conducting this particular experiment at three in the morning. But how was he to know that wet black powder could still be considered combustible? Okay, maybe it wasn’t _wet_ , per say, but Sherlock had everything under control. At least he did until the little firecracker he was working with went off.

Thankfully, the amount of powder wasn’t large enough to cause any physical damage to Sherlock (and that table could survive anything) but the sound it made was considerable. Sherlock more than expected Mrs. Hudson to be up here in a huff, yelling at him about first her walls, now her kitchen.

But there were no tottery old steps on the stairs. There were hard, pounding footfalls coming down from the upstairs bedroom. Then the kitchen door was flung open to reveal John standing there, both hands curled around his Browning, prepared to hurt whatever was trying to blow Sherlock up. Even if it ended up being the man himself.

As soon as John saw Sherlock standing next to the smoking table—completely unharmed as far as he could see—he groaned. “Sherlock, what the fuck?” He snapped. He still held his gun up, pointed at the smoldering bit of the table as if it were still going to attack. “I smell black powder.”

“Yes,” Sherlock nodded towards the table. “I was doing an experiment with some firecrackers.”

John looked from Sherlock to the table, then back. His shoulders sagged slightly but the gun was still held tight in his fingers. Strong, dexterous hands gripped the gun tighter than tight, knuckles turning white with the effort. Sherlock’s eyes traveled up John’s arms, taking in the tight cording of his muscles. Tension radiated up through his shoulders and down into his chest. His breath was coming in harsh, ragged pants as his eyes continued to dart around the room, as if he were looking for an attacker.

Even though he’d found the source of the bang and knew that everything was fine, John couldn’t calm down. It was obvious that John’s fight or flight responses were weighted heavily towards fight (Sherlock often doubted that John actually had the ‘flight’ option) and even knowing everything was safe, he couldn’t calm down. He was stuck in fight. But… why?

That was when Sherlock realized his crucial error. John’s PTSD wasn’t a problem during the day; when he was fully alert, Sherlock could make all the noise he wanted. In sleep, however, with the paralytic chemicals sent out during REM, John would be more prone to reacting badly to loud noises. Considering his time spent in a war zone, he would probably react badly to anything that sounded like a bomb. Like the firecracker Sherlock had just set off on accident.

Sherlock put it all together just in time to watch the tremors start to curl through all of John’s limbs. His usually steady gun hand started shaking ever so slightly as he started to crash. “John!” Sherlock stepped towards him, wrapping one arm around John’s back and the other going for the gun.

John was shaking so hard, it practically fell out of his fingers. “Sherlock,” he mumbled into the other man’s shoulder as they started making the trip down to the floor.

“It’s alright,” Sherlock said. He thumbed the safety back on and laid the gun on the table before tending to John. “What do I need to do?”

“Save the black powder experiments for the day time,” John breathed out.

“John! Be serious!” Yes, it was his fault John looked about to have a panic attack, and the jokes were not helping.

A shaking hand reached out to grab his, bringing it up to John’s own neck. With Sherlock’s fingers pressed against his pulse point, John let his eyes fall shut. “Count,” he ordered. Sherlock obeyed.

“You’re just skirting one hundred,” Sherlock said.

“Great,” John snorted. “I always knew you’d give me a heart attack. I just thought it would be in bed.”

“John,” Sherlock could barely keep the worry from his voice. Then again, he didn’t want to. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t—”

John raised a hand and laid it across Sherlock’s chest, silencing him for a minute. “Give me a minute, alright? Let me…” he took a deep breath. “Get things together.”

Sherlock nodded and fell silent. He stayed there, crouched next to John. His hand did drift away from John’s neck to rest on his chest, and John kept his hand on Sherlock’s chest. Both men paid attention to the heartbeat of the other until John’s managed to calm down again.

“Alright?” Sherlock asked.

“Yeah,” John nodded. He started making the climb back to his feet with Sherlock practically clinging to his side. Instead of pushing the detective away, John wrapped his arm around Sherlock and started walking them out of the kitchen. “From now on,” he said as they started to climb the stairs. “You’re going to bed when I go to bed. No more of this middle of the night, playing with black powder stuff, okay?”

Sherlock opened his mouth to protest, but John got there first. “Unless you have a case.” Damn, that had been Sherlock’s argument.

By now, they were standing outside of the door to John’s bedroom. “Please, Sherlock,” John sighed, leaning his head against the tall man’s chest. “I know you don’t sleep as much as I do, and I’m not asking you to sleep. You could sit and read, use your laptop, anything you want, just no more of this, okay?”

Sherlock could still feel the frantic beating of John’s heart under his fingers. Still going far too fast. And all of it, his fault. “Yes, John,” he nodded. He opened the door and led them both inside.

They’d been sleeping together for months, and sometimes, they even just slept (well, John slept, Sherlock would work on his laptop or something of the like) but they still had separate bedrooms. Neither really knew why, it just seemed the thing to do. Tonight though, Sherlock was more than happy to stay with John. In fact, if John hadn’t insisted on it, he probably would have. Sherlock knew exactly how reactive John’s PTSD made him… he just forgot sometimes. And after what had just happened in the kitchen, he wasn’t too keen on letting John spend the night alone. Just this one night, he could stay in bed with the man.

As for the rest of this silly ‘you sleep when I sleep’ rule, well, Sherlock had no problem waiting for John to fall asleep so he could resume his night time activities, then slip back into bed before he awoke. It would keep John happy and Sherlock saw no harm in it.

Once they were both settled under the covers, John wrapped his arm around Sherlock, pulling him onto his chest. Sherlock smiled at how well John knew him. Of course he would want to listen to the heart that he’d accidentally abused tonight; Sherlock would always want to know if John was well or not.

Despite the earlier chaos, it didn’t take long for John to fall back asleep. When he did, Sherlock pulled his head up to watch that sleeping face. Just for a minute or two… maybe an hour…

When the first rays of morning sun started to light the window, only then did Sherlock realize that an hour had turned into all night.

 

 

**2.**

**  
**

Sherlock never went through with his plans to sneak out of bed after John fell asleep. It’s not that John caught him (that man sleep through anything, except for, you know, explosions) more because Sherlock didn’t _want_ to leave. Watching John sleep was the single most fascinating thing Sherlock had ever seen. He could probably fill several notebooks with data on his sleeping patterns. After the first two nights, he managed to fill one.

Unlike most people who could only sleep in one particular position, John was a very versatile sleeper. He could fall asleep anywhere: right side of the bed, left side of the bed, foot of the bed, floor next to the bed. And he could fall asleep in any position: on his back, on his side, on his front, curled up, stretched out. Some nights, it seemed like he fell asleep at will. It was _fascinating_.

Still, like most people, John tended to snore when he was on his back. Sherlock didn’t mind terribly. It was a bit like white noise and could be considered calming, but Sherlock needed to know more. All the nights he and John had fallen asleep after sex, he didn’t hear a peep from the man. Was his snoring affected by the position, or by how tired he was? Sherlock needed to know.

He started slow. Snuggling up close to John in a preferred sleeping position for them both, and gently starting to tug John’s arm around him. Most times, John did the rest of the work and rolled onto his side, ready to spoon behind Sherlock’s back. Other times, John would resist the tugging and roll completely away (that’s how he ended up on the floor that one time).

Once Sherlock saw that nothing would wake John, he got bolder. Instead of soft movements that could be made in one’s sleep, he would boldly reach out and position John however he liked. Sometimes, he pressed them close together so he could breathe the other man in. Other times, he would move John to the very outside of the bed to see if he would tip himself back into the warm sheets or fall over the side. It was about a fifty-fifty probability either way.

And sometimes, Sherlock would just lay there, looking at John’s sleeping face. This night in particular, he was doing just that. With his leg hooked over John’s hip, John’s arms wrapped around his back and their noses almost pressed together, Sherlock spent a good two hours staring at his lips, memorizing the little lines and creases. Of course he could already identify John’s lips by touch, but he still wanted to add the images to his hard drive.

At the beginning of hour three, Sherlock felt something brush against his stomach. Tearing his eyes away, he looked down their torsos to find John’s cock slowly stirring to life. A quick look back at his face revealed a smile and a decidedly pleased expression. John was having an erotic dream. Sherlock could barely contain his excitement; ever since he began his study, this had yet to happen. Damn, where was the notebook?

Sherlock didn’t require anymore proof, but it was almost as if John’s body wanted to provide it. With a soft moan, John’s arms tightened around Sherlock. This had two advantages: it offered Sherlock a closer examination of John’s face, and it brought his hips closer. Sherlock could feel the now-semi-erect shaft pressing into him.

Suddenly, John let out a long moan. “Oh, yeah…” Apparently, he felt it too.

Then, John was off and running. Sherlock didn’t have a chance to grab his notebook or try to collect any data at all, as John tightened his hold, pulling them together and continued rutting against Sherlock.

Sherlock had heard of sexsomnia (a sort of parasomnia in which the sleeper attempts to have sex in their sleep; anything ranging from light frottage to full-out copulation [sometimes even violently]) and he knew John was not among their number. For one thing, he would’ve noticed earlier, and for another, had that been the case John wouldn’t have had to make a rule to keep Sherlock in bed with him. No, this was just a garden variety erotic dream. He rather wondered what John was dreaming of…

“Mmm,” another moan. “Sherlock…” well, there was that question answered.

Really though, Sherlock had no idea where to go from here. Rolling John about while he slept was nothing, nowhere near the breach of trust touching John up in his sleep would constitute. But… oh, when John’s hips started thrusting against Sherlock, he started having real trouble keeping himself in check.

His own cock started responding to John and the movements he was making. The way his arm slid down Sherlock’s side to grab hold of his ass and squeeze. “John!” Sherlock gasped. John didn’t wake. Didn’t seem to notice that he was doing anything wrong. He just. “Oh, hell!” Kept. Going.

At this point, Sherlock figured there was no helping it. John’s body would have what it wanted, and really, why deny it? He wrapped his leg more firmly around John, grinding them together in a different rhythm, one that worked for him as well. With the sounds John was making, it seemed to work for him too.

It wasn’t the most artful sort of love making. Nothing but two bodies rutting against each other, limbs tangled together in the frantic search for release. And it wasn’t long in coming.

John’s hard cock somehow managed to find its way out the fly of John’s pajamas and was now rubbing against Sherlock’s own silky sleepwear. Barely coherent, Sherlock tugged at his bottoms, lowering them so they caught at his one ankle before continuing.

Skin slid against skin now, and that was enough. Sherlock cried out and started to shake as he came. Thick ropes of come painted John and he started coming too. The hot fluid poured over them both, making everything sticky. Sherlock loved it just a little too much.

When it was finally over, Sherlock looked at John’s face again. He fully expected to see surprised blue eyes looking back at him, but no. John was still asleep. What?

Sherlock took a second to catch his breath before untangling himself from John. He got up and went down to the bathroom to grab a flannel and clean John up. Once things were back in order (he would tell John in the morning, but he didn’t want to ruin the sheets) Sherlock reached over and grabbed the seventh notebook filled with his observations of John’s sleeping patterns. He’d already taken notes for tonight but there was no way he couldn’t include _that._

His eyes moved down the page until he found the end of that night’s entry.

 

_02.38_

_  
_

_Addition to the list of events Subject can sleep through: Sex._

_  
_

_  
_

**3.**

**  
**

John was more prone to nightmares when he was sleeping on his own. That was part of the reason Sherlock found the separate bedrooms business completely nonsensical. Even before Sherlock started watching John sleep, they spent most nights collapsed in the same bed. Right after sex, John would fall into a deep sleep. Sometimes, Sherlock would even be exhausted enough to join him for an hour or so. He didn’t need much sleep and the hour spent unconscious in John’s arms was always more than enough. Then he would get up and go downstairs, always listening for signs that John was having a nightmare. But that was before.

Ever since the new Rule, John hadn’t had any nightmares. At least, not that Sherlock noticed—and he was watching closely. But there was one night…

Lestrade gave Sherlock a ‘maybe case’ (maybe something, maybe a waste of time) and he couldn’t resist popping into the kitchen for a little experiment. John had said that the Rule only applied when there were no cases, so Sherlock didn’t feel the least bit guilty going into the kitchen and painting several tiles with the same brand of paint that was found at the crime scene. If the crack marks matched, they had something. If they didn’t, then it was just weathering.

He was just finished with the last tile when he heard a shout from upstairs. Sherlock left the kitchen so fast, he was half way up the stairs before the chair hit the floor. Opening the door, Sherlock practically threw himself into John’s bed, wrapping his arms around the thrashing man.

“John,” he whispered into sweat-damp hair. “Shush John, it’s okay. It’s okay.”

Almost as soon as he felt Sherlock’s arms around him, John stopped moving. His breath still came in harsh pants and Sherlock felt the flutter of eyelashes against his cheek. “Sherlock?” Voice tight with fear and sleep, John wrapped his arms around Sherlock. “What happened?”

“Nothing,” Sherlock whispered. “Go back to sleep.”

John gave a half-hearted attempt to move his legs, only to be hampered by the sheets tangled around him. “My legs,” he said softly and went to sit up.

Sherlock’s hand on his chest stopped his movement. “I’ll get it.” He leaned down and carefully pulled the tangled sheets from around John’s legs. Covering them both back up, Sherlock pulled John closer to his chest. “Go back to sleep.”

With a nod, John quickly dropped off again. Sherlock never returned to his experiment.

 

 

**4.**

**  
**

He hadn’t had a case in over a week, but that didn’t bother Sherlock. By all rights, he should be going out of his head. Shooting up Mrs. Hudson’s walls. Something. Instead, he was calmly watching John’s sleeping face.

As the nights went by, Sherlock found himself taking fewer notes. Now, the notebooks were filled with soft pencil sketches. They ranged from small sketches of John’s lips, to full page, highly detailed drawings of his entire face. Every soft line was infinitely beautiful to Sherlock. And every night John fell asleep next to him, Sherlock was even more confused.

The trust, the beautiful, blinding trust John had in him was breathtaking. Falling asleep next to an awake body (especially one as hyperactive as Sherlock’s) was not an easy feat, and was rarely done without trust. It made sense that he trusted John—the man was willing to shoot people for him, do anything to protect him—but it still baffled Sherlock as to why John would put this much trust in him. He regularly conducted experiments on John without telling him, slipped substances into his coffee and food to see his reactions. It was always for a case, but still. John had no reason to trust him like this, and yet he still did.

The only conclusion Sherlock could reach was the one he already knew, the reason they were together. In every sense of the word, John was his other half. Sherlock didn’t need notes to remember that.

 

 

**5.**

**  
**

John wasn’t a psychologist, or someone who studied sleep disturbances, but he was a doctor and he knew a Suprasomniac when he saw one. It was actually a pretty rare parasomnia. He’d only met one other person with the condition: a nurse he worked with in Afghanistan. The best damn nurse John had ever met. She could afford to be good; when one only needs one hour of sleep out of every twenty-four, she could treat patients ‘round the clock. In a war zone, that made all the difference. Was always sharp as a whip, never needed a break or to slow down, one hour and she was good. Sherlock was the same way.

It was inconvenient at times (like experiments with black powder at three in the morning) but John knew it was the only way Sherlock could live the way he did. John suspected that he would be shirking the ‘you sleep when I sleep’ rule as soon as he made it, but he continued to wake up with Sherlock sitting next to him. Sometimes, staring creepily, other times just watching. John really didn’t mind either. Though, it did mean that John had little opportunity to watch back. No matter what he was doing—walking, talking, handling viscera—Sherlock was beautiful in his waking hours. John could only imagine how glorious he must be while he slept.

When a particularly nasty embezzler discovered that Sherlock was on his trail, he wasted no time in trying to throw him off. Since murder wasn’t quite his thing, he managed to force sleeping pills down Sherlock’s throat during a fist-fight. John was minutes behind, so he wasn’t there to slug the bastard while Sherlock tried to collect himself. So what did Sherlock do? Already feeling the effects of the pills, he took off running after the man and managed to catch him.

He handed him over to the Yard as pretty as you please and promptly collapsed into John’s arms. “Sherlock?” He asked, franticly checking his head for any injuries. A sharp blow to the head could do this. When he found nothing, John became even more panicked. “Sherlock!” He yelled.

“Pills,” Sherlock mumbled, his eyes dropping closed.

“Lestrade!” John shouted. “Bring that guy here!” Because he wasn’t about to leave Sherlock’s near-unconscious body alone on the floor of a grubby alley.

“What?” Greg called back. The embezzler was in handcuffs, already halfway into the police car.

“He fed Sherlock some pills!” John yelled.

He didn’t even have to explain. Suddenly, the man was standing next to John, Lestrade gripping his cuffed hands painfully tight. “What’d you give him?” The copper growled.

“Just sleeping pills,” he winced.

“How many?” John asked. He moved his eyes away from Sherlock’s sleeping face to glare up at the man. If he needed a little intimidation to talk, John would gladly provide it.

The man paled. “Nothing lethal!” He insisted. John really didn’t believe him. “Hey mate, I steal money, I don’t kill people.”

Lestrade handed the man over to a PC to take him back to the car before looking down at John. “Better take him to the hospital just to be sure.”

“As if that wasn’t already my plan,” John growled. He wasn’t mad at Greg, he was mad at the stupid embezzler. Feeding sleeping pills—even a normal dose—to a Suprasomniac… John didn’t know what that could do. What happened when a man who literally didn’t need sleep was forced to? Nothing good, would be John’s guess.

Lestrade gave the ambulance a police escort and thanks to some string-pulling from Mike, John had Sherlock in to see a sleep specialist within the hour.

Stretched out on the exam table, the doctor looked Sherlock over as best he could. “Suprasomnia is rare,” he said, peeling one of Sherlock’s lids back to see one rapidly moving eye. “I’ve never heard of this happening. It’s never been tested—ethics, too small a subject pool, things like that—but I don’t imagine it’ll pose much harm.” He slid Sherlock’s lid closed and smiled up at John, who’d been nervously pacing the room for ten minutes. “Normal sleep-aids give eight hours of sleep. Even if he’s out for that long, it’ll probably just make him a bit sluggish for the next few days. Same thing that happens when a normal sleeper gets too much sleep.”

“He’s not going to fall into a coma or anything?” John asked. It could happen. If a normal sleeper gets much too much sleep (about a week solid of it) the body is at risk of never waking up again. And considering Sherlock only needed about an hour a night, eight hours straight was the equivalent of a normal sleeper sleeping for three days straight.

The doctor shook his head. “I don’t think so, but I’d like to keep him in the sleep lab overnight.”

No matter how much John wanted to take Sherlock home and wait by the bedside until those unearthly eyes opened again, the doctor in him knew this was the better option. “Can I stay with him?” He asked. “Is there an observation room or somewhere I can stay?”

The doctor smiled softly. “Of course.”

Half an hour later (starting Sherlock’s second hour of sleep in a row) John was pressed right up against the Plexiglas of the viewing room next to Sherlock’s sleep lab room. EKG, heart monitor and all sorts of other machines were hooked up to the detective. John could name them all, but he knew that if he did, he would go out of his mind. He settled for watching the readings.

Normal sleep patterns, all of it normal. Nothing visibly wrong. But what was normal for a Suprasomniac? Hell, what was normal for _Sherlock_?

John didn’t sleep that night. How could he? Sherlock had a risk of slipping into a coma, how could he even think about sleeping? All he could do was pace back and forth in the viewing room, eyes darting to the monitors. Normal, all of it normal. But for how long?

There was no external light down in the sleep lab, so John only knew it was morning when the alarm on his phone went off. He quickly silenced it and checked the monitors again. Sherlock was just coming out of his latest REM cycle.

“Mmm,” a soft moan had John inside that room faster than he thought possible.

“Sherlock?” He whispered. He reached down and grabbed Sherlock’s hand, squeezing the warm flesh against his chest. “Sherlock? God, please wake up.”

A few more minutes. And then. Another moan. And another. Sherlock started to stir and finally (finally, finally, finally) opened his eyes. “John,” he smiled. “It’s alright John, breathe.”

And for the first time in eight hours, John did. “Christ, Sherlock,” he sighed and bent forward to bury his face into Sherlock’s neck.

Because John knew now, and he had it wrong. Watching Sherlock sleep wasn’t the beautiful thing. Watching those eyes open to look at him, and only him. That was beautiful.

The End


End file.
